A Face From The Past
by Random Phantom
Summary: An old enemy returns to haunt Lewis and Hathaway, and a deadly game of cat-and-mouse ensues that could have fatal consequences for Oxford's finest... rated T to be on the safe side for occasional strong language. No other "adult" themes.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any recognisable character. I make no money from publishing this fic. Reviews and constructive criticism would be appreciated. Any mistakes are my own.

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Sergeant James Hathaway had always hated the smell of hospitals. The sharp tang of disinfectant mingled with other distant aromas, like the cloying odour of boiled cabbage from the kitchens, the reek of various bodily excretions and the lurking stench of death. He strode down one of a number of seemingly endless corridors, preceded by a doctor.

"This way," the doctor gestured, unnecessarily.

"Tell me what happened," Hathaway said, calmly, as they walked.

"I've already told the Inspector," the doctor replied, irritably, "I'd like this dealt with quickly and quietly, please."

"And it will be, if you can tell me what happened," Hathaway persisted, unfazed by the doctor's snappish mood.

The doctor sighed, and shook his head. They stepped past a cleaning lady who was mopping the floor, who glanced at them quickly and then looked away, concentrating on her mopping.

"Her name is…was… Mrs Rogers," the doctor said, at last, sounding tired, "a most impatient patient. She was brought in with chest pains – for the third time this month, I might add – but we found nothing amiss. She was kept in for a few days for observation. However, a couple of hours ago, a nurse went in to check on her and she was gone. We instigated a search, and eventually, found her body on a gurney, covered up. Just down here…"

They turned a corner, and found an area cordoned off be tape and guarded by a lone uniformed officer. Hathaway glanced at the doctor.

"Wait here, please," he said, and stepped past the barrier, "we might have some more questions for you in a moment."

The doctor nodded, reluctantly, as the young sergeant headed off down the corridor. Ahead of him, he could see a knot of uniformed officers milling around with some scene of crime officers in their white forensic uniforms. There was a hospital gurney casually parked to one side against the wall, and it was next to this that Inspector Lewis and Dr Hobson were having a hushed conversation. As Hathaway approached, Lewis glanced up.

"Afternoon, Sergeant," he said, amusement making his tone light, "have a good night last night, did we?"

"With all due respect, sir, please shut up," Hathaway replied, resisting the urge to rub his tired eyes.

It had been a bit of a session last night – they had only gone for a pint after band practice, and one had become three, and then… Hathaway winced, and turned away from his boss's tolerant smile.

"Go on then, sir," he said, approaching the trolley and trying to forget about his hangover, "you know you want to. Give me the gory details."

"Her name is Anita Rogers," Lewis replied, as Hathaway pulled back the sheet to take a look, "78 years old, admitted with chest pains – one of the nurses described her as a pain all round. Apparently she was a bit of a hypochondriac – convinced she had a bad heart but the doctors said there was nothing wrong. She went missing sometime this morning – none of the nurses saw anything – and was later found by a porter lying on this trolley here. Dr Hobson says she's been dead for a few hours, like."

"Why is this considered to be a matter for CID?" Hathaway asked, curiously, as he replaced the sheet over the old woman's face.

"Well, it looks like Mrs Rogers has been murdered," Lewis replied, bluntly, "bruising around the mouth and nose indicate that she was smothered. She was then wheeled out of her room and left in this corridor, from the looks of it. As ever, we want to know who killed her and why."

Lewis reached out and twitched back the sheet again. Hathaway glanced at the body – an elderly, white-haired lady, who, for all the world, would have looked like she was asleep if had not been for the plainly visible bruising around her nose and mouth.

"Start interviewing the staff, sergeant," Lewis said, still staring at the body, "I'm going back to speak to our doctor friend – let's see if we can find out how a patient supposedly under observation can wind up dead in a hallway."

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By the end of the shift, Lewis and Hathaway were none the wiser as to why Anita Rogers would have been murdered.

"She was an old woman with no money and no living relatives save an elderly brother in a nursing home in Devon," Lewis said aloud, causing Hathaway to glance up from his desk in the corner, "she checked herself into hospital on a semi-regular basis more to get a hot meal than anything else. She was frail, but in otherwise good health."

"Some of the nurses found her quite irritating," Hathaway suggested, "maybe one of them got fed up with her and bumped her off."

"Bumped her off?" Lewis repeated, almost amused, "a frail old lady making demands from a hospital bed might be annoying, but it's not much of a motive for murder! Besides, I can't help but think I know our victim from somewhere. Her name is familiar… How are the file checks coming along?"

"Slowly, sir," replied Hathaway, "the computer is cross-checking her name against all files, both active and inactive. Coroner's report confirms suffocation – someone pinched her nose and covered her mouth at the same time."

Hathaway mimed the action, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger and placing his palm over his mouth.

"She would have struggled," he continued, dropping his hand, "but as you said, sir – she was a frail old lady, so she couldn't have put up much of a fight."

"Yes," Lewis agreed, pensively, "anything else?"

"One other thing, sir," Hathaway nodded, "Dr Hobson says that from the size of the bruises, the killer had quite small hands."

"Is she saying our killer is a woman?"

"Possibly, sir – Dr Hobson says she can't commit to anything."

Lewis raised a small, knowing smile, and then returned to reading the statements in front of him from the hospital staff. They had interviewed three doctors, the staff nurse, three other nurses and two porters. Of these, only one of the nurses had recalled seeing Mrs Rogers alive, some time during the night when she had checked in on her, until during the morning shift another nurse had raised the alarm. The body had been found by the two porters, who had seen the corpse covered by a sheet abandoned in a hallway nowhere near the morgue. The itinerary for the morning had been lights on, serve breakfast at 8, collect breakfast dishes at 8:30, then a deep clean of the rooms between 8:45 and 9:30. This was followed by a check on the patients at 10:00, doctor's rounds commencing at 10:30, and then distribution of medication. Mrs Rogers had been reported missing at 10:15…Lewis frowned. There was something bothering him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it…

Suddenly, Hathaway sneezed, and Lewis jumped, losing the train of thought.

"Bless you," Lewis said, automatically.

"Thank you, sir," Hathaway replied, with a sniff, "bloody dust from these files…"

Lewis looked back down at the report, but whatever it was that had tickled his thoughts had slipped away. He sighed, and stood up.

"Come on," Lewis said, pulling on his jacket, "you look about ready for a hair of the dog that bit you."

"Who's buying?" Hathaway said, suspiciously.

"I think it's your round," Lewis responded, smoothly, ignoring the glare Hathaway shot him.

"Aye sir," the sergeant said, getting to his feet and grabbing his jacket, "sounds like a plan…"

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They sat in a corner, leaning on opposite sides of a table, sipping their drinks quietly.

"I can't get her face out of my mind," Lewis confessed, at last, "something's bothering me, James, and I can't quite put my finger on it. I'm sure I know her name from somewhere."

"A case, sir…?"

"I'm almost sure of it," Lewis nodded, "certainly not a recent one, of course…I just wish I could remember, that's all."

"Maybe she was a bit younger then, sir – whenever it was."

"Probably," Lewis agreed, taking a deep mouthful of his drink, "fancy another, sergeant?"

Hathaway drained the last of his glass, and set it down on the table.

"Yeah, why not?" he said.

"Good. Same again, please."

Hathaway sighed, smiled to himself, gathered the empties, and went to the bar.

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The next morning, Lewis headed into work early, keen to check the results of the computer search. As he was driving, he slowed the car slightly, as he passed a man sweeping rubbish out of the gutter with a broom. Watching the man in his rear-view mirror, Lewis suddenly braked hard, causing the driver behind him to blare his horn loudly.

"Of course!" Lewis slapped the steering wheel, "We didn't get a statement from the cleaner!"

He hauled on the wheel, made an illegal U-turn to the continued consternation of the driver behind him, and sped off in the direction of the hospital. It was not a long drive, and he pulled into the car park, parking close to the entrance. He went into the hospital, and, from memory, made his way through the corridors until he found the geriatrics ward, and the nurse's station. The staff nurse gave him a nod of recognition.

"Inspector Lewis," she said, coolly, "what can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you knew who it was who did the cleaning of Mrs Rogers' room yesterday?" Lewis asked, "We didn't get a chance to speak to the cleaner, and it's important that we establish who the last person was to see her alive."

"Certainly," the nurse nodded, "that would be Maria…I think her name is Maria, anyway. She always does these wards. Here she comes now…"

The nurse pointed, and called out to the approaching woman; "Maria!"

The cleaner looked up, and Lewis could not prevent a gasp; "You!"

The woman's eyes widened with shock. She let go of the cleaning cart, dropped the mop, and ran. Lewis took off after her.

"Stop!" he shouted, "Police – stop that woman!"

Despite his shouts, the shocked staff and patrons of the hospital did little else but jump to one side. Lewis pursued her down the corridors, and then outside into the car park. Momentarily blinded by the sun, he raised his hands to shield his eyes, as he visually scanned the area. There were two nurses smoking and chatting outside the entrance, who broke off their conversation to stare at him curiously.

"Which way did she go?" Lewis called to them, still looking around desperately as he stepped into the car park.

"Who? The cleaner?" one of the nurses asked, confused.

Lewis was nodding as he looked around the car park for movement – she could not have gotten far, so she was most likely hiding… Suddenly, he heard an engine rev some where to his right. He turned, and suddenly saw the blur of a vehicle heading towards him. He turned to move, but there was no time. Distantly, he heard one of the nurses scream a warning. He felt the impact on his right leg, his head hit the bonnet of the car, and he knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

Hathaway groaned, and opened his eyes. Not two nights in a row… at least he hadn't ended up in a dodgy club this time. It never ceased to amaze him just how much beer his boss could put away in a sitting when he put his mind to it. He felt around to turn off the persistent ringing of the alarm clock, and then realised that he had fallen asleep on the sofa, not in his bed. The persistent ringing was, in fact, his mobile phone. Grumpily, annoyed at having been woken up, he grabbed the handset.

"Hathaway," he grunted, "Oh…ma'am… yes ma'am… he's what? When? How…? I'm on my way there!"

Hathaway slammed the phone down, and dashed upstairs to get dressed. Barely moments later, there was a squeal of tyres as his car was forced into a gear and pealed out off the driveway. He was driving too fast, but he didn't care, as he wove in and out of early morning traffic – thankfully, it was still slightly too early for rush hour, and Hathaway knew a few shortcuts.

Recklessly fast and probably still slightly over the legal limit to drive, he pulled into the hospital car park to a scene of barely controlled chaos. There seemed to be uniformed officers everywhere, interviewing hospital staff, visitors and patients, and cordoning off a large area near to the entrance. Hathaway did not bother to park, merely abandoning the car as he slammed the door. Nobody met his gaze, except for one –Chief Superintendent Innocent. She cut easily through the crowd and reached him quickly, cutting the sergeant off in his path towards the entrance.

"What happened?" Hathaway demanded.

"We don't know," Innocent replied, succinctly, ignoring his blatant breach of protocol and slightly rumpled appearance, before expanding; "two nurses on a break saw a cleaner run out of the building, followed by Lewis. They didn't see where the woman went, but they said Lewis was after her for some reason. They weren't really interested, but then they say they saw a car come around the corner. Both of them agree it accelerated, and the driver made no effort to swerve or stop. Lewis was run down."

Hathaway felt his heart sink, and he straightened his tie in an unconsciously worried gesture.

"How is he?" he asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

"He'll be fine," Innocent replied, confidently, taking Hathaway's arm and leading him towards the hospital, "he was lucky – two nurses immediately on the scene and a hospital right next to him!"

"I want to see him," Hathaway said, allowing Innocent to tow him towards the hospital entrance, "What the hell was he doing here, anyway?"

"You can't – at the moment he's still in emergency surgery," Innocent responded, with a shake of her head, "and we don't know why he was here. I've sent a uniform around to geriatrics to find out. I assume it was something to do with the Rogers case."

"He must have remembered something, or there was a new lead," Hathaway rubbed his jaw, thoughtfully, his mind racing, "ma'am, tell me – how is he?"

Innocent was leading him through the maze of corridors, which, as ever, were a hive of quiet activity.

"I managed to speak to one of the nurses who saw the accident," she answered, at last, "he's going to be out of commission for a while, it seems. The nurse said his right leg was clearly broken. He also had broken ribs, some internal injuries, and severe head trauma. The nurse says he was unconscious when they took him in. He's going to be in surgery for a while. He's lucky to be alive."

Hathaway suppressed a shudder that had nothing to do with his slight hangover. Suddenly, their murder case had just become more personal.

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Hathaway, unable to simply sit and wait, had thrown himself into the deep end of the enquiry. Several hours later, weary yet taut with tension, he found CSI Innocent sitting in the waiting area reading an out of date celebrity gossip magazine. When he entered, she tossed it aside quickly, looking slightly guilty at having been caught reading it.

"Report," she said, clearing her throat slightly and crossing her legs, leaning forward attentively.

"Inspector Lewis arrived here at 7:30 this morning, roughly," Hathaway replied, rubbing his eyes tiredly, "he spoke to the staff nurse – wanted to know something about the cleaner, a girl called Maria. As he was talking to the nurse, this Maria appeared. She saw the Inspector, and he recognised her. She ran off, he followed, and chased her outside, where he asked two nurses if they'd seen her. He stepped out into the road, where he was run down. The nurses agree that it looked deliberate and they both thought that the driver was a woman."

"The cleaner?" Innocent guessed, "But why?"

"I don't know," Hathaway admitted, "the Inspector knows something that we don't, ma'am. And he was damn near killed for it. I wish I knew what it was."

"Who is this cleaner, anyway?"

"A woman called Maria Brookville," Hathaway shrugged, "the name doesn't ring a bell at all. I can't find a photographic ID – there isn't one on the hospital personnel file. In fact, the hospital can't find her file at all."

"Lost, or stolen?" Innocent asked, perceptively.

"Could be either," Hathaway shrugged, "ma'am… is there any news on the Inspector?"

"Not yet," Innocent shook her head, "listen, I've got to go back to the station. But the minute you hear anything, I want to know."

"Yes, ma'am," Hathaway said, quietly, "and if you find that woman…?"

"You'll be the first to know," Innocent promised.

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"Sergeant Hathaway?"

Hathaway jumped and snapped awake, surprised by the nurse's entrance but even more surprised that he had managed to doze off in the uncomfortable, high-backed wipe-clean armchair the had been his perch for the last couple of hours. The nurse smiled at his confused, bleary-eyes expression.

"Your friend Mr Lewis is out of surgery,"

"He's not my friend, he's my boss," Hathaway said, quickly, and then realised that the first part of that sentence was not strictly true, and added, "how is he?"

The nurse's smile widened slightly, nodding as if she understood, "You can see him now, if you like."

Hathaway nodded, wordlessly, and gestured for her to lead the way. She led him through several corridors, and into a side room.

"The surgery has been quite successful, we think," the nurse said, chirpily, "the doctors have inserted a pin in his leg to straighten out and support the break – three fractures in all. The internal injuries will heal nicely, as will the three broken ribs. His dislocated shoulder has been reset – the only concern now is the head injury – a fractured skull."

Hathaway nodded – he heard the words, but it seemed to take him some time to process what she had said. In the background there was the soft bleeping of machinery, though he couldn't begin to work out what it was. He crossed slowly to the bed. Lewis was asleep or unconscious – Hathaway couldn't tell.

"Can he hear us?" he asked, quietly.

"I doubt it," the nurse replied, with a shrug, "he's still heavily sedated, and on regular doses of morphine for the pain. It could be a few days before he wakes up."

"A few days?" Hathaway repeated, incredulous, "But…"

He broke off. He knew Lewis had information that he desperately needed for the investigation. But… he shook his head.

"Never mind," he murmured, "would you give us a few moments alone? Thank you."

The nurse nodded, and slipped out. He closed the door and turned back towards the bed, crossing over to gaze down at his boss. His right arm was in a sling, and Hathaway felt a strange knot in his throat, wondering just how badly hurt the Inspector really was. There was a thick bandage around his head, and his right leg, though covered by blankets, was swathed in a cast – and these were just the injuries that he could see. He suddenly felt a strong urge to leave – if he could not talk to the Inspector, he had no wish to stay. He suddenly thought that maybe he should try to contact Lewis's son and daughter. Then he realised that he did not have their contact details. He decided that he would mention it to Innocent later.

Hathaway hesitated, uncertain of what to do. Unbidden, a memory rose in his mind – of a burning house, the stench of smoke in his nose, the acrid taste in his mouth, the certainty that he was dying as his consciousness slipped away, and then on waking up in hospital, weak, hurting, but alive…the relief of seeing a familiar face, a face that held no judgment against him and had been there for him… only later had he found out that his boss, who he considered to be slow and out of shape, had entered that burning building and carried him out, and sat with him until he had regained consciousness…Hathaway pulled back from the raw emotions the memory evoked.

He reached out, pulled up a chair, sat down, and waited.

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Hours passed, and Hathaway continued his vigil. He had no idea who the attacker was and if the woman had known Lewis, and had seen fit to try to kill him, then she might be capable of anything. He wished Lewis would wake up and tell him who it was. It was definitely the cleaner – Maria Brookville – but without any photographic identification, or better yet the woman herself, Hathaway had no idea who she really was.

He had tried getting the hospital staff to give a description, but, as one nurse had rather arrogantly put it, 'she was just a cleaner'. None of them had paid much attention to her, and in her blue uniform with a headscarf, he had not even been able to establish the colour of her hair.

Innocent had dropped by for a few minutes nearly an hour ago. She had advised Hathaway to go home, get some sleep, eat and shower. He had agreed to do so and then not moved. Innocent had also said that she thought Lewis had returned to the hospital as they had not obtained a statement from the cleaner after discovering the body.

Lewis had obviously spotted this omission, as the cleaner was the person who had most likely been the last person to see Anita Rogers alive. The address that they had for Maria Brookville was a small flat in a council block, and, when the uniformed officers had broken in, they found nothing – a squatter's paradise. Wherever Maria had been living, it was not at the address she had given to the hospital.

Eventually, exhaustion and hunger won out, and Hathaway stood up. He glanced down at Lewis, a heavy feeling in his chest.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, quietly, "I'll be back as soon as I can…"


	3. Chapter 3

Two days crawled passed, and what few leads they had slowly dried up. Maria did not return to work at the hospital, and it was virtually a given that she had killed Anita Rogers. If it had not been for the assault on Lewis, Hathaway might have been tempted to simply issue the warrant for her arrest and move on to the next matter. As it was, Innocent had taken him off all other cases indefinitely…

Hathaway glanced at his watch. Normally, he would have had time to go to home, change, maybe meet for a prayer meeting and band practice, go for a quick pint – just the one – and then head home to unwind. Instead, he went to his car, and drove over to the hospital and wound his way through the corridors that were becoming increasingly familiar. He slipped passed the nurse's station, and they conveniently ignored the out-of-hours visits, as he quietly entered the side room. He had fallen into this routine with surprising ease, carrying a newspaper and a cup of tea. He set down the tea, sat down beside the bed, and glanced down at Lewis. It seemed that there was no change, yet the nurses assured him that he was making a good recovery.

Hathaway picked up the paper, shook it out, and absorbed himself in the headlines. The crossword, he was disappointed to note, only took him fourteen and a half minutes. He preferred a challenge… he was mentally re-writing the clues to make them more challenging when a something distracted him momentarily. He glanced up at the door instinctively, but there was no-one there. There was a low groan, and Hathaway shot to his feet, leaning over the bed, hesitantly.

"Sir?"

Another slight groan, and a cough. Hathaway crossed to the door, and leaned out.

"Nurse! I think he's waking up…"

The duty nurse jogged down the corridor to join him, and leaned over the bed, checking some of the monitors.

"Mr Lewis?" she said, clearly, "Mr Lewis, can you hear me? Can you squeeze my hand, please? Good, that's good…"

Hathaway hovered in the background, uncertain as to what to do. Lewis whispered something to the nurse, and she looked up at Hathaway.

"You've only got a couple of minutes if you want to talk to him," she said, quickly, "make it fast – he really should be kept sedated."

Hathaway nodded as the nurse stepped back, but did not leave the room. He approached the bed, and sat down.

"I'm here – it's me, Hathaway…James," he said, feeling awkward, "sir… do you remember who did this to you?"

"…Aye…" the word was whispered, hoarse, but the affirmation made Hathaway's heart leap,

Lewis tried to move his head, but gasped in pain, and Hathaway winced in empathy.

"A name, sir," the sergeant said, his voice low and urgent, "please, give me a name…"

"Maria…"

"Maria Brookville? We know it was her – but who is she?"

"Yes…and no…"

"Explain, sir, please."

Hathaway leaned in, his voice urgent. On the bed, Lewis turned to look at him, grey-green eyes filled with pain. The name he uttered filled Hathaway with a sudden, cold dread.

"Marion Brooks."

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"Oh God, I've heard of her," Innocent shook her head, worried, "What do you know about her, sergeant?"

"It's an old case, ma'am," Hathaway replied, calmly, "As I recall, it was one that Chief Inspector Morse solved. Marion Brooks was the partner of professional con-man Hugo du Vries. Inspector Lewis told me about the case once. He said du Vries would have kill Morse if he got the chance."

"And now his girlfriend is trying to kill Lewis?" Innocent sounded confused.

"Marion Brooks was imprisoned as a result of her assistance to du Vries," Hathaway explained, gesturing to the old file he had pulled from the archives, "Inspector Lewis – sorry, the then Sergeant Lewis – was heavily involved in her arrest, and it was his testimony in Court that sealed her sentence. Inspector Morse was not called to give evidence because he had been, quote, 'emotionally involved with the accused', end quote."

"She was Morse's girlfriend?" Innocent said, horrified.

"Not exactly, ma'am," Hathaway shook his head, albeit uncertainly, "but she was the accessory in the murder of his girlfriend – a murder Inspector Morse himself was framed for by du Vries."

"Give me the file," Innocent held her hand out authoritatively, "I'd better do some reading! When was Brooks released from prison?"

"Eight months ago," Hathaway replied, handing over the file, "the computer finally made the association between Maria – Marion – and Anita Rogers. Anita was one of du Vries's victims. He cheated her out of her life's savings and left her in abject poverty. She must have recognised Marion, so Marion killed her."

"And when Lewis realised we didn't have a statement from the cleaner and went back to get one, he saw Marion and recognised her immediately," Innocent finished, nodding as she spoke, "she took off, he gave chase, and she ran him down with her car."

"There was no need!" Hathaway's anger flared suddenly, as his voice rose, "She could have just driven away and we'd still be no closer to finding her or knowing who she was!"

Innocent let the outburst pass with little more than a raised eyebrow, as Hathaway took a deep, steadying breath.

"We've got the all ports bulletin out on her," she told him, reassuringly, after he had composed himself and mumbled an apology, "I've put a guard on the door to Lewis's room at the hospital. We'll get her. I've brought in some back up. I'm assigning you to a new Inspector to take the lead on this case."

"But…"

"No 'buts', sergeant," Innocent interrupted his protest bluntly, "you will work with Inspector Hogan on this case. There will be no arguments."

Hathaway drew in a deep breath, and nodded.

"Good boy," Innocent said, with a half-smile, "you're dismissed."

"Yes ma'am. I think I might call at the hospital on my way home…"

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Hathaway stayed far later than he had done over the previous few days. He had read the prison file, which told him very little, and then the computer files, which told him even less. Marion Brooks had spent a short few months on parole, and had then been released completely to do as she pleased. It seemed that she had wrangled herself a job as a cleaner with a slight change of name and some fake references…

"You look like you could use a beer," said a quiet, hoarse voice.

Hathaway started, dropping the file, and glanced down at the bed.

"I thought you were asleep, sir," he commented, gruffly, with a half-smile.

"Damn leg," Lewis murmured, wearily, "wish I was at home…"

"Maybe in a few days," Hathaway replied, tossing the file to one side, "Sir, we can't find her. Marion Brooks. We don't know where she is."

"She'll have gone to ground," Lewis muttered, covering his eyes with the hand of his good arm, "she learned a lot from that bastard du Vries."

"Can you remember anything else, sir?"

Lewis tried to shake his head, flinched, and raised his left hand from his eyes to touch the bandages around his head. The sling was gone from his right arm, but Hathaway could see the older man was still in a lot of pain.

"It was a blue ford," Lewis said, his voice rasping as he spoke, "a blue ford… Alpha Nine Seven…Alpha…Alpha Nine…"

Lewis stopped, pressing his hands over his eyes. Hathaway half-rose, worried.

"Sir?"

"Sorry," came the reply, through gritted teeth, "head hurts… can't remember…"

"Don't worry about it, sir," Hathaway told him, sitting back down, "you need to rest – get some sleep."

"Damn leg…" Lewis murmured, semi-consciously, "Marion Brooks – might be after you – look out for her…"

"I will, sir," Hathaway said, softly, reaching out and gently resting his hand on his boss's arm, "please – get some rest."

"Aye…"

Hathaway waited until he was sure that Lewis was fast asleep, and then he silently lowered his head and prayed for a few minutes, before left the room. He was late for an appointment… he had been summoned to the pub by his new boss, this Hogan character. Privately, Hathaway wondered if drinking ability was one of the assessment criteria for promotion to Inspector…

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Marion Brooks watched as the Sergeant left the hospital and headed towards his car. She had laughed to read of Morse's death while in prison, but once that initial elation had passed, she felt cheated that she had not been able to take revenge. Hugo had made such plans to make Morse suffer for putting him in prison! Now her only recourse was against the sergeant – now the Inspector – who had put her in prison and prevented her from taking revenge. She remembered how her beloved Hugo had put the gun to her head – she had seen the love in his eyes that stopped him pulling the trigger – and then he had turned the gun on himself to avoid the return to prison… and then she had learned the hard way why he had been so keen to avoid the place. Oh yes. She would make Lewis pay – and if his sergeant and others had to suffer as well, then she could cope with that.

She turned, and climbed into her car – it was now a grey metro, a clunky old thing, but she could not risk her old car being identified – that was now a burned out hulk in a quiet lay-by out near the woods, and it would no doubt simply be towed away by the police and crushed. She was almost glad that that she had allowed Hathaway to pass unscathed – she had a feeling he might come in useful at some point.

Revving the engine, she pulled out of the car park. She had been greatly annoyed to have tracked down the Inspector's home address, only to find that his wife had died and his children lived far from home. At least she had the address. She had learned patience from Hugo – if needs be, she could wait months, and extract her revenge slowly, over time.

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Hathaway walked towards the bar that this Inspector Hogan had chosen. He knew it to be a bit rough, but it served decent enough ale – Hogan had, at least, some taste. He slipped inside, and found the place to be virtually deserted. He crossed to the bar and ordered a pint – what the hell, he was off duty, and if this Hogan bloke wanted to meet him in a pub, at the very least he could have a drink…an empty pint glass landed with a thud on the bar top next to him.

"I've got these," said a friendly voice, "name's Hogan. I'm going to take a guess at yours, Hathaway."

"Correct," he confirmed, and turned, to find himself facing a woman wearing a long black leather coat.

Hogan gave him a grin. She was about 6 feet tall and looked to be in her late forties, with dark hair that was streaked with grey. She had grey-green eyes, and beneath the coat she wore dark jeans and a black roll-neck sweater. The barman served their pints, and Hogan led him out into the beer garden, where she dropped into a chair, lit up a cigarette, and offered him one.

"Thanks," he said, as she lit it for him, "what's the catch? I normally end up paying for the drinks."

Hogan gave a snort of a laugh; "I'll remember that for next time."

They smoked in silence for a few moments as each gave the other surreptitious, appraising looks. Finally, Hogan spoke.

"I've read the files on du Vries and Brooks," she said, leaning forward to take a drink from her pint, "I've also read the psych reports on Brooks from prison. She seemed completely rehabilitated and her grudge was against this Morse character, not your Lewis. We figure she flipped out and killed this old lady because she recognised her, but why have a go at your Lewis?"

"We think it brought back old memories," Hathaway replied, taking a contemplative drag on his cigarette and blowing the smoke to one side, "she'd landed herself a menial job at a hospital, but then even that was taken away the minute the Inspector recognised her. Even if she hadn't committed the murder she'd have been suspect number one and the hospital would have replaced her in a snap."

"Transferred malice?" Hogan suggested, "she can't get Morse so she'll go for Lewis?"

"An appropriate phrase incorrectly applied," Hathaway commented, "transferred malice indicates a case where a killer intends to kill one victim and accidentally kills another. Inspector Lewis isn't dead."

Hogan laughed; "let's hope we can keep him that way."

"Agreed," Hathaway said, taking a drink, "have you reported to CSI Innocent?"

"Helen can wait," Hogan said, dismissively, "I'm more interested in hearing what's been going on from you."

Hathaway noted the use of the Chief's first name, and marked it as a point of interest for further conversation at a later date.

"Inspector Lewis remembers next to nothing about the incident," he reported, succinctly, "save that he clearly identified Marion Brooks. We checked CCTV footage and although there isn't a clear shot of the car, we have a clear picture of her leaving the hospital. Her identity is confirmed. She has changed her appearance a little – some cosmetic surgery, longer hair, and so on. We have an APB out on her but no-one has seen her since the attack. It's as if she disappeared into thin air."

"A scientific impossibility," Hogan replied, bluntly, "a clever man like you would know that, sergeant. Five will get you ten she's changed her appearance again – dyed her hair, or taken up a disguise. I believe du Vries was an expert in that, and I bet you he taught her a few tricks."

"It's not so easy to disguise the female face," Hathaway responded, "you couldn't grow a beard or a moustache."

"You'd be amazed the difference a haircut or a wig can make," Hogan grinned, "what's the size of our team?"

"Thee and me, at the moment," Hathaway said, a little glumly, "we've had no leads over the past week – our chief sees no reason to expend valuable resources by having people sitting around the office drinking coffee all day."

Hogan gave a grunt of a laugh, and finished the last of her pint.

"We'll see about that," she said, cryptically, "sergeant… I believe it's your round."


	4. Chapter 4

Despite Hogan's optimism, days passed, and the search for Marion Brooks wound down, a slow erosion of time and manpower, as other matters needed to be dealt with. Marion, for her part, kept her head down, not going out, not even to shop. She monitored the news, and kept her eye on the newspapers that were delivered to her flat, a dingy council place held under a pseudonym, on the outskirts of Oxford. She had bought another car as well, a battered old red mini, from a dealership in Birmingham. She could not be seen, she could not be found, and she could not be traced. Eventually, she ventured out. Now, her hair was black, and she had adopted a walking stick. Walking slightly hunched over, she looked older and frailer than she really was, and no-body looked at her twice.

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Hathaway and Hogan made little progress, as it seemed every lead they picked up went no where. Innocent hounded them for results, and Hathaway was secretly impressed at the blunt like-for-like approach that Hogan had when dealing with Innocent. It was clear that the two were good friends. One morning, reluctant to go to the office immediately, Hathaway decided to visit the hospital.

He entered Lewis's room, and found the Inspector awake and sitting up in bed, reading some paperwork. He wore a black tee-shirt and blue jeans, with the right leg sliced open to the knee to accommodate the plaster around his broken leg. The bandage was gone from around his head, though there was still a large, visible bruise. Lewis glanced up, and raised a ghost of a smile.

"Morning, sergeant," he said, "How's the search going?"

"It's not," Hathaway sighed, sitting down, "every day more men are taken off and put back on their regular duties. It's been two weeks since you first spotted her, and she seems to have disappeared back into the ether."

Lewis nodded, and set aside the files he was reading. Hathaway glanced at the cover – the old Hugo du Vries case reports. Hathaway raised an eyebrow.

"A little light reading, sir?"

"Aye," Lewis sighed, rubbing his eyes, "I wondered if I might have missed something the first time around, but…How's Hogan?"

"I haven't seen her yet," Hathaway admitted, "between her and Innocent, I'm outnumbered and outgunned."

"Aye, I know the feeling," Lewis agreed, "mind, they've said I can go home tomorrow – given me crutches for the leg…"

He indicated the plaster that encased his right leg. Hathaway nodded.

"I'll come and pick you up in the morning," he offered, "save you getting a taxi. Innocent says she expects you to use the down-time wisely."

"Recuperating?" Lewis raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"I think catching up on paperwork was more what she had in mind, sir…"

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Later that day, back at the station, Hogan and Hathaway were having a conference in Lewis's office. Innocent had insisted that Hogan use the office in Lewis's absence, so, much to Hathaway's amusement, Hogan had installed a paste-table, a folding deck-chair and a laptop as office furniture, rather than disturb the order of Lewis's desk. She did not seem to spend much time sitting down, though – she spent a lot of time out of the office talking to her contacts in the Oxford area. When Hathaway had asked where Hogan had originally been based, her cryptic reply had been 'here and there'. He let the matter rest.

"Nothing," Hogan stood with her arms folded, staring at the map of Oxford that was pinned to the wall, "bugger all, in fact."

"Sir?" Hathaway said, enquiringly.

He had found out the hard way that Hogan hated to be called 'ma'am'.

"My contacts," she replied, by way of explanation, "this had got to be the first time in any of my enquiries that my contacts haven't turned up a bloody thing."

She turned away from the wall, frowning.

"She's good," Hogan concluded, as she slowly paced up and down the tiny office, "very good. She knows we're after her. She's gone to ground – probably staying indoors. If she has ventured out, she's changed her appearance. Are we getting anywhere with the newspapers?"

"They're bored of the story," Hathaway replied, tossing aside the file he had been reading, "they ran her photo for a few days, we got the usual number of crank calls, and then nothing. The picture that we've got is years out of date – even with the CGI alterations Inspector Lewis described, we've got nothing back."

"Bugger all," Hogan repeated, shaking her head, "we've spoken to the hospital staff – Marion didn't socialise with anyone there. We've spoken to her parole officer – he hasn't seen her since she was fully released. She'd got no family, no friends that we could find, nothing."

"Bugger all," Hathaway agreed, "so what do we do?"

Hogan paused, and then smiled – a slow, predatory expression.

"We draw her out," she said, at last, "give her exactly what she wants… a target."

Hathaway considered this, and then realised what she meant.

"You can't be serious," he said, quickly, "you can't just… Inspector Lewis will never agree to it."

"I'm sure he will," Hogan responded, brightly, "he wants Brooks caught as much as we do. Call your pet journalist at the Oxford Mail and get him to run a short story on page 3 to say Lewis is being released from hospital tomorrow morning. Just a small column item – Brooks will be bound to pick up on it."

"She might realise it's a trap," Hathaway pointed out, "you said it yourself, sir – she's smart."

"Hopefully, we're smarter," Hogan grinned, turning back to the map, "now – what route will you be taking from the hospital to Lewis's house…?"

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The next morning, as usual, the local newspaper landed on Marion's doormat with a slight thud. She wandered into the hall and picked it up, scanning the headlines with casual disinterest. She was no longer front page news – or even second or third page… but then again… she spotted the short paragraph in the right hand column – 'Inspector to be Released Following Hit-and-Run', and she pursed her lips thoughtfully. Hugo had always told her never to make a rash move, but…

She carried the paper through to her kitchen, where she brewed a cup of tea and sat down to think. She sipped the tea and considered the article. It was not a newsworthy item, really. Hugo had said that as much as she trusted her brain, she should trust her instincts. Something did not seem right, and this was enough to put her off from making a move. She should be patient… and yet she so badly wanted him dead. This man had ruined her and been a part of Hugo's death…

With an angry swipe of her hand she sent the paper flying from the table, its pages fluttering to the floor as she took a deep breath. In her mind, she heard Hugo's voice…

'_Channel the anger, my love… and think before you act.'_

Marion drew her tea mug into her hands and cradled it. The police would probably be expecting her to try something – why not give them what they wanted?

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Hathaway kept a wary eye on the hospital car park as Lewis carefully got into the passenger seat of the car. Near to the exit, Hathaway could see Hogan parked up in a silver Toyota, borrowed from the pool car lot back at the station. Her own car, a jet-black Mitsubishi Shogun, was far too distinctive for their purposes. Hathaway dropped into the driver's seat, and backed slowly out of the space. He willed his shoulders to relax, as he glanced around, expecting…what? He didn't know, and that made it worse.

"Relax, will you?" Lewis said, giving him a sideways glance, "You're going to leave marks on the steering wheel if you grip it any tighter."

Hathaway allowed himself a small smile, and loosened his white-knuckle grip on the wheel. He glanced up at the rear view mirror – sure enough, there was Hogan, following at a discreet distance, ready to intervene should anything untoward occur. Next to Hathaway, Lewis shifted uncomfortably.

"How much longer have you got to keep the cast on?" Hathaway asked, conversationally, as he slowed to allow a red Ford Fiesta pull out from the right.

"Another five weeks," Lewis said, sounding unimpressed at the prospect, "bloody thing…"

"I broke my arm when I was ten," Hathaway said, conversationally, "my mother gave me a knitting needle to scratch the itch from the cast."

"I've been using a coat hanger," Lewis admitted, "until that nurse… James, look out!"

Hathaway glanced up, swore, and stamped on the break pedal, but it was too late. The red Fiesta had stopped, suddenly, in the middle of the road. Hathaway's Nissan ploughed straight into the back of it, throwing them both forward in their seats. Hathaway heard Lewis yelp in pain, gasping, as the hiss of air escaping indicated the damage to the radiator… Hathaway slowly became aware of the pain in his neck and head, and shakily began to wonder if this was what whiplash felt like.

Suddenly, the door next to him was wrenched open.

"Are you two alright?"

He couldn't respond.

"We're fine," Lewis said, his gritted teeth belying his words, "find out who's in that car!"

Hogan nodded to him, sparing Hathaway a quick glance.

"I'll be right back," she promised.

She strode up to the Fiesta, as a crowd of onlookers began to gather around. Hogan pulled out her badge and indicated for them all to back off.

"Police," she shouted, "open the door and step out of the car!"

The door opened, but the driver made no move to exit. Hogan caught a glimpse of shoulder-length blonde hair, and recalled their most recent description of Marion Brooks. She stepped forwards, one hand held out defensively in front of her.

"Don't make any sudden moves," she said, warningly, "step out of the car, please…"

"I can't," said a shrill voice, "I'm stuck!"

Hogan frowned.

"Marion Brooks?" she said, cautiously approaching the car, "Please step out of the vehicle."

Hogan drew level with the car, and glanced down to peer inside. The driver turned around to face her. It was not Marion Brooks. It was a man in a blonde wig.

"What's up, bitch?" he grinned, and lunged.

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It was nearly 8pm. In Lewis's house, Lewis was lying down on the couch. Hathaway sat in the armchair, staring off into space. Hogan was in the other armchair, nursing a black eye and a beer purloined from Lewis's 'fridge.

"Look at the state of us," she said, suddenly, breaking the silence, "pathetic."

"Shut up," Lewis said, without opening his eyes.

"Who was that bloke?" Hathaway asked, distantly.

It had taken Lewis nearly ten minutes to persuade the sergeant to let go of the steering wheel and get out of the car, such had been his shock at the accident. Hogan had bundled them both into her car, had them checked out at the hospital, and then brought them here. Wile she had opted for a beer, Hathaway, still in shock, was drinking a sweet tea. Lewis, still on painkillers, was his reluctant companion in drinking the pot of tea Hogan had made.

"Harry Seedwell," Hogan replied, "he was out of his mind on pot. He's got a record as long as your arm. Innocent interviewed him herself. It seems a black-haired woman in her late forties hired him to crash her car into yours, Hathaway."

"A black-haired woman in her late forties? I thought Brooks had gone blonde," Lewis commented.

"Hair dye or a wig would solve that," Hogan shrugged.

"That description sounds like you, sir," Hathaway said, pointing at Hogan.

Hogan smirked, "That's what I like about your sergeant, Lewis. He thinks of all the possibilities."

"I would prefer to think it was Brooks," Lewis responded, "Do you think we can persuade the sergeant to order out for Chinese?"

"I think he's had enough excitement for one day," Hogan replied, "how about pizza?"

"Far too exotic for him," Lewis said.

"I am still here, you know," Hathaway replied, with mock-irritation, "pizza wins on a two-to-one vote…sir."

Lewis smiled and waved a hand dismissively. Hathaway pulled out his 'phone and began to push buttons.

"I'll order it off the Internet," he muttered, causing Hogan and Lewis to exchange glances and raised eyebrows.

"Flash git," Hogan smirked, drinking her beer, "anyway, this Seedwell character couldn't tell us much else, but I've put his name on the street. Someone will know something about who hired him, when and how."

"I'm beginning to think we'll never find her," Lewis said, quietly, "so far, the only slip she made was coming back to the hospital after killing Anita Rogers."

"Yes," Hogan nodded, thoughtfully, "I'd been wondering about that. Arrogance on her part? It doesn't fit with her character. I think she came back to steal her personal file – it was just dumb luck that you happened to see her. No offence, Lewis."

"None taken – dumb luck works for me more often than not," Lewis said, with a ghost of a smile, "she hasn't made a single mistake so far, though. That's more than luck."

"Maybe you're right," Hogan sighed, searching her pockets and pulling out a packet of cigarettes, "still, all eyes on the street are looking for her. Every informant knows we're serious about this one."

She pulled a cigarette from the packet, and then caught Lewis's look. Guiltily, she tucked it back into the inside pocket of her coat, and fidgeted with the label on the beer bottle instead. Lewis leaned back on the sofa, and suppressed a groan of pain as he did so.

"Just do me a favour," he sighed, "find her."


	5. Chapter 5

Finding Marion Brooks was easier said than done. A week past, then two, then a month, and then two, and still nothing came up. Hogan's transfer to Oxford was finalised, and she gradually began to work on other cases, waiting for a sergeant to be assigned to her. Lewis returned to work, eventually ridding himself of the cumbersome cast, but still limping slightly as he refused to carry on using crutches. The file on Marion Brooks continued to sit on the corner of his desk, but it never gathered dust as he would constantly pick it up and read it in the quieter moments around the station. Other cases gradually took over from the time he and Hathaway could spend on the matter. They still met with Hogan regularly, more to socialise than for any real work business. It was late one afternoon when Hogan stuck her head through the door.

"Hey guys," she said, breezily, "just on my way out. Fancy a drink?"

Hathaway glanced across at Lewis, who nodded in ready acceptance.

"Sounds like a plan," he said, "you're not driving, are you?"

Hogan gave a short laugh; "No, don't panic. I figured on walking to the pub around the corner, if you're up for it?"

"It won't get better if I don't use it," Lewis replied, patting his leg, "coming, James?"

"That makes me sound like your butler," Hathaway grumbled, but grabbed his jacket in any case, "a little early, isn't it?"

"If anyone asks, we're following up a lead on something," Hogan suggested, "come on. I'm thirsty."

"You're always bloody thirsty," Lewis shot back, as they strolled out of the station, "in fact, I'm sure it's your round…"

He trailed off, slowly, staring straight ahead.

"Sir…?" Hathway prompted him, following Lewis's line of vision, "what…?"

"It's her!" Lewis gasped, pointing, "Marion Brooks!"

The dark-haired woman sitting on the park bench opposite to the station entrance chose that moment to turn her head towards them. Her eyes widened fractionally, before she leapt to her feet and took off. Lewis lunged to go after her, but pain shot up his leg and he cried out, stumbling. Hogan and Hathaway caught him before he could fall, but he shook them off.

"Get after her!" he cried.

"I'm on it!"

Hathaway took off at a sprint. Hogan, still hanging onto Lewis, watched him go, before glancing at Lewis, who had managed to straighten up, gasping slightly with the pain.

"I guess that drink will have to wait, huh?" she said, "Come on… you'd better sit down."

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Hathaway came back red-faced, out of breath, and empty handed.

"I'm sorry, sirs," he said, as they continued their slow walk to the nearby pub, "I lost her."

"Don't worry about it," Lewis replied, "damn. It's our first sighting of her in weeks – no doubt she'll go to ground again after this."

"Maybe," Hogan agreed, "but then again… what was she doing watching the police station? She must have known she was taking a massive risk of being recognised by someone."

"You think she's planning something, don't you, sir?" Hathaway said, giving the tall woman a sideways glance.

"Yes, I…" Hogan stopped, patted her pockets, and glanced up with a quick grin, "ah. I seem to have left my wallet behind. You guys go on ahead. I'll catch up."

With a quick flick of her long black coat, Hogan turned on her heel and jogged back towards the station. Lewis met Hathaway's gaze, shrugged, and the two of them continued on their way to the pub.

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They were half way through their second pints when they started to get concerned.

"I'm the one whose limping – it shouldn't have taken her this long," Lewis commented.

"Maybe she's stood us up, sir," Hathaway replied, leaning back in his chair, "I'm afraid you'll have to console yourself with my company tonight."

"That's enough of that," Lewis remarked, gesturing with his pint glass, "we're getting enough funny looks as it is."

Hathaway smiled and drank deeply from his pint, deftly pulling his mobile phone from his pocket as he did so. Setting the glass down on the table, he scrolled through the numbers in his contacts list, and hit the call button.

"Her phone's switched off," he said, puzzled, glancing at the handset, "that's not like her. I'll call the station, and see if she's there…"

Lewis finished his pint and, grabbing Hathaway's empty glass, he went to the bar for a top-up. By the time he came back, Hathaway was frowning.

"Inspector Hogan never went back to the station, according to the desk sergeant," he reported, as Lewis handed him a pint, "thanks. Her car is still in the car park, and nobody's seen her since we left."

"She's a big girl, sergeant," Lewis commented, "maybe she went to run an errand?"

"What errand does she ever run that's more important than this?" Hathaway asked, raising his pint and one eyebrow in emphasis.

"Good point well made," Lewis agreed, "have you tried texting her?"

"I've left her a message asking her to call me," Hathaway nodded, "and I've asked the desk sergeant to let us know if she reports in at any point."

"This bloody Marion Brooks thing has got us all more rattled than it has any right to," Lewis growled, sipping his pint, "I'm beginning to think I'm cracking up – looking for her on every park bench, every time I leave the house – she's stalking me without coming anywhere near me!"

"Let's hope that's true, sir," Hathaway replied, straight-faced.

Lewis simply nodded, and they drank in silence.

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The next morning, there was no sign of Hogan. Lewis went to Innocent's office late that morning to raise the point, but the Chief Super merely raised one eyebrow.

"Hogan called me last night to request a couple of days' emergency leave," she said, casually, "I granted her request. She said it was a family emergency and none of anybody else's business. How's the leg?"

"Fine, thanks," Lewis replied, shifting unconsciously to stand a little straighter under her scrutiny, "did Hogan say when she'd be back?"

"In a couple of days," Innocent replied, vaguely, "how are you getting on with the theft from the Allen place?"

"Fine," Lewis nodded, "the bloke we collared yesterday plea-bargained. CPS are taking it from here."

"Good," Innocent said, picking up a file from her desk and opening it, "unless there's anything else…?"

"No," Lewis sighed, "thank you, ma'am."

He turned and walked out, heading back to his own office. Hathaway was already there, and handed him a cup of tea silently. Lewis was suddenly assailed by the memory of how he would always wait in Morse's office with tea for the older man after a chewing out from CSI Strange… he shook off the memory, and, with a murmur of thanks, sat down at his desk, trying to ignore the dull ache in his leg.

"Hogan's gone away for a few days," he told the sergeant, "no, I don't know where or what for, but something's not right… how are we coming with that Allen matter?"

"CPS have called us to give evidence by a written statement," Hathaway replied, sitting on the edge of his desk, "we're lucky Fitzgerald plea-bargained – at least we won't be witness summonsed."

"Good," Lewis nodded, sipping his hot tea, "the last thing I want is some bloody court defender picking apart the evidence."

"Agreed," Hathaway got to his feet and flipped through the files on his desk, "so… do we spend our afternoon writing our statements?"

"No, sergeant, you gat to spend the afternoon writing our statements," Lewis replied, "I, on the other hand, am off the visit Dr Hobson…"

"Your leg's not that bad, is it, sir?"

Lewis gave Hathaway a withering look; "I'm taking the lady out to lunch, sergeant. Try not to put too many spelling mistakes in my statement, thank you."

"Yes sir," Hathaway muttered, dropping into the chair at his desk.

He watched the Inspector go, before he opened up a template statement, and began to type.

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Lewis passed an amiable lunch with Dr Hobson as they inevitably reminisced about 'old times', before moving onto hotter topics – Hobson trying to tease some gossip about Hathaway out of Lewis, and Lewis remaining frustratingly tight-lipped about the whole thing.

"I hear Hogan will be getting a sergeant herself, soon," Hobson commented, as they shared a bottle of wine, "any idea who it will be?"

"Not a clue," Lewis shook his head, "besides, Hogan's off on leave for a few days. A family emergency, apparently."

"Really? She told me she didn't have any family," Hobson said, surprised, "a mystery man, perhaps?"

"I wouldn't know," Lewis laughed, holding up his hands defensively, "before you start interrogating me. That's Hogan's business, not mine."

"Damn your gentlemanly ways, Lewis," Hobson teased him, "all right – if you won't give me the gossip, I'll start picking on the dishy sergeant Hathaway."

"He doesn't know anything either," Lewis told her, finishing his wine, "Well, I'm afraid I have to head back to the office."

"I'll come with," Hobson said, standing.

They left the restaurant and walked slowly back towards the station, enjoying the sunshine. They chatted idly as they walked, but suddenly, Lewis broke off mid-sentence, staring straight ahead.

"What is it?" Hobson asked, concerned, "Robbie?"

"I don't believe it," he murmured, "I don't bloody believe it…!"

Hobson was left standing in the street, open-mouthed, as Lewis took off at a run. Gathering her wits, she ran after him, ignoring the surprised looks she got from other pedestrians. As she ran, she realised that ahead of Lewis, a woman was also running, apparently trying to get away from them. Suddenly, Lewis stumbled and fell, hard. Hobson jogged to a stop, breathlessly, and knelt down beside him. A few concerned people stopped, but Hobson waved them to carry on.

"Lewis, are you all right?"

Lewis groaned, slapped the pavement in frustration, and then allowed Hobson to help him to his feet, as he leaned against a wall for support.

"This bloody leg…!" he moaned.

"Who was that?" Hobson asked, jerking her head slightly in the direction that the woman had disappeared.

Lewis gritted his teeth as he stared down the street.

"That? That was Marion Brooks."

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Hobson called for a taxi to take Lewis home, telling him he was in no fit state to go back to the office, and to go home and rest. Back in the comfort of his small, single-bedroom house, Lewis changed into jeans and a sweater, switched on the stereo, flipped on a Dire Straits album, opened a beer, and stretched out on the sofa. He'd been so damn close this time – there she was, on the high street – he could have had her, if only…

The loud ringing of the doorbell startled Lewis, and, for a long moment, he wondered where he was. Realising he'd fallen asleep, he got to his feet, and limped to the door, opening it.

"Evening, sir," Hathaway said, cheerfully, holding up a carrier bag, "Indian, this time."

Lewis stood back and let him in, but could not resist a quick glimpse outside before he closed the door and locked it.

"Dr Hobson called me and told me what happened," Hathaway said, as he unpacked the bag and started pulling plates and cutlery out of the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen, "are you sure it was Brooks?"

"Positive," Lewis said, tiredly, taking a seat at the dining table, "is it coincidence, or is she following me?"

Hathaway just shrugged, as he continued to move around the tiny kitchen with practiced ease. He pulled a couple of beers from the fridge, opened them, and set them on the table with the plates of curry.

"Thanks for this," Lewis said, indicating the food with his fork as he ate, "how much do I owe you?"

"About three pints," Hathaway replied, succinctly, "and you probably owe one to Dr Hobson as well. She stood up to Innocent today on your behalf and agreed that the woman she saw you chase was Marion Brooks."

"I'll remember that," Lewis commented, "Innocent thinks I'm cracking up, doesn't she?"

Hathaway was saved from having to make a response, as, with a sudden crash, something came flying through the window next to them, showering them both with broken glass. Hathaway leapt to his feet, peering out into the darkness through the broken window, but he could see nothing. He turned back, to see Lewis leaning over what had come through the glass.

"Don't touch it, sir, it's evidence."

"I know that, sergeant," Lewis sighed, staring at the brick, "but something tells me we won't get much from it. Come on – whoever threw it might be hanging around outside…"

Lewis crossed to the front door, unlocked it, opened it, and stepped outside. Hathaway turned to follow him, but to his surprise, Lewis stepped back into the house, walking backwards, his hands slightly raised. He continued to back up slowly. Then, Hathaway saw the gun.


	6. Chapter 6

Marion Brooks had cut her hair short, as Lewis remembered it from their first meeting, all those years ago. She also had a cold look in her eyes, and the gun that pointed at his face was held in an unwavering grip.

"I've waited years for this," she spat, glaring at him, "you bastard! It's thanks to you Hugo killed himself, and because of you that I spent eight years in prison. Eight years! Do you have any idea what that's like?"

The gun whipped around as Hathaway made a slight movement, and he froze.

"Don't even think about it," she growled at him, "I was an innocent when I was arrested. Prison changed that. I won't go back there."

The gun snapped back to Lewis, and she met his gaze, her eyes filled with hatred. Lewis stayed as still as he could as his heart hammered in his chest. It was not the first time he had been on the wrong end of a gun, and yet… he swallowed, hard.

"Marion… just…put the gun down, okay?"

"No," she replied, in a low voice, "it's not okay. I may not get to kill that bastard Morse but at least I can kill you. On your knees – now."

"You kill me, then what?" Lewis asked, not moving, "back to prison?"

"I plan to join Hugo," Brooks replied, her expression softening slightly, for an instant, before the deadly scowl returned, "now get on your knees!"

"No," Lewis shook his head, tiredly, "no, I won't."

Brooks moved the gun closer, rocking backwards and forwards slightly.

"Kneel," she ordered, "or I'll kill him first."

She gestured the gun towards Hathaway, who was trapped where he was by the obstacle of the kitchen table. Lewis met his gaze, and then looked back at Brooks.

"So you'll kill us both anyway," he pointed out, "look, there's still time. Put the gun down, okay? We can help you…"

She moved with a sudden speed, slamming the butt of the gun into Lewis's temple. He grunted in pain and pitched to his knees as nausea and dizziness washed over him, sparkles dancing at the edges of his vision, as his hand went to his head to stem the sudden flow of blood from the deep cut. He heard Hathaway's shout of protest, the sudden movement as the sergeant lunged, and then the gun's report sounded awfully loud in the enclosed space. Lewis dared to open his eyes, and found he was staring up the barrel into Marion's cold stare, a wisp of smoke curling upwards from the business end of the gun.

"James…?" he called, barely able to see though the tunnel vision, and the blood that was running into his left eye.

"I'm… I'm fine, sir," came the reply, but there was a tremble into the words the belied the response, "just…just my arm."

Lewis winced as he gazed up at Marion.

"At least let me help him," he said, trying to keep his voice calm, "he's done nothing to you. It's me you want."

"Is he dear to you? Is he precious to you the way Hugo was to me? Maybe I should kill him in front of you so you know how it damn well feels!" Brooks snarled at him, "Enough talk. This game has gone on for long enough. Close your eyes."

Hating himself for doing so, but not wanting to see what came next, Lewis obeyed. Then the world seemed to explode.

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It all happened in slow motion. There was a loud crash, and then the gunshot, and a scream from Brooks. Lewis opened his eyes. There was a bullet hole in the floor in front of him and a fight going on in his dining room. Slowly, unsteadily, as if his legs were made of lead, he staggered to his feet, just in time to see Hogan lash out with a punch that sent Brooks flying backwards, the gun still in hand. Brooks rolled, gathered her legs under her, and dashed out of the open front door. Hogan spun around, torn between assisting Hathaway and Lewis and giving chase.

"Get after her!" Lewis yelled.

Hogan took off. Lewis staggered across the room and fell to his knees beside Hathaway, who was slumped against the breakfast bar of the kitchen. The sergeant's face was ashen, but he was conscious.

"I'm fine, sir," he rasped, "just a flesh wound…"

Lewis made no response, as he gently examined the wound – it was deep, but not serious – the bullet had nicked the skin.

"You're bloody lucky, sergeant," Lewis commented, his own voice little more than a croak, "you'll mend."

"Yes, but this bloody jacket won't," Hathaway groaned, bitterly, "another suit ruined."

Lewis opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by the startlingly loud gunshot from just outside. He met Hathaway's horrified look as in unison they said; "Hogan!"

Lewis shot to his feet, grabbing the wall for support as he stumbled outside. He was more than a little relieved that Hogan was there to meet him, white-faced, but unhurt.

"She shot herself," Hogan pointed a shaking hand down the path to the road, "she shot herself, right in front of me!"

Lewis stared at her for a moment, and then gestured for her to come in. He sat down heavily in the armchair, pressing a hand to the gash on his head.

"Do you think," he said, his voice sounding fuzzy, even to his own ears, "that you could call for backup?"

He didn't hear the response, as his mind gave up the struggle for consciousness, and his eyes seemed to close of their own accord.

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A few days later, Lewis, Hathaway, Hogan and Hobson sat outside a pub next the river. Hobson was giving Hogan and Hathaway disapproving looks as they smoked happily in the sunshine. Hathaway's left arm was in a sling, Lewis had a pad taped over the cut on his head and a black eye, and Hogan was sporting a split lip and a bruised cheek from her tussle with Brooks.

"I look like I'm on day release with the walking wounded," Hobson commented, giving Hogan a sideways glance as she took a deep drag on her cigarette, "do you know what that's doing to your lungs? I could show you if you like."

Reluctantly, Hogan stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the table, and focussed on her pint instead.

"You never told us, Hogan," Lewis said, leaning forward slightly, "where you disappeared to and how you knew to turn up at my house when you did."

Hogan fidgeted with the pint glass, took a mouthful and then set it down on the table.

"When we saw Brooks outside the station that day, it confirmed my suspicions," she said, "I had a feeling that Brooks had started stalking you – I had no evidence, mind. So I doubled back and started following you myself. It wasn't long before I spotted her again. I couldn't get close enough to her, though. She was very good – I lost her a couple of times. When I caught up with her and followed her to your house, I figured it was then or never. I'm sorry about the window, by the way."

"That was you?" Hathaway interrupted, surprised.

"Yes," Hogan gave Lewis and apologetic shrug, "I'll pay for the repair. I was aiming for her… she was standing by the window, you see. I think she was trying to get a line on you both."

Hogan held up her right hand, miming a gun with two fingers, waving between Lewis and Hathaway.

"With the blinds down, she could see your silhouettes," explained Hogan, dropping her hand to pick up her pint, "I couldn't get near her while she had the gun. I'm sorry I missed her – I thought she'd run. It took me a few moments to realise where she'd gone."

"Well, we're grateful for your timing, if not your methods," Lewis commented.

"Brooks must have thought she'd hit the jackpot finding both of you in the same place," Hogan shot back, "is there something going on that I don't know about?"

"Oh, we're just inseparable," Hathaway smiled, as Lewis groaned and rolled his eyes, eliciting a laugh from Hobson.

"I hear you're getting a new sergeant," Lewis said, to Hogan, changing the subject, "anyone I know?"

"His name's Dennis Michaels," Hogan replied, "apparently, this one was already taken."

She jerked her thumb at Hathaway, who managed a one-shoulder shrug with his good arm.

"Like I said, we're inseparable," he said, glancing at Lewis, who gave a theatrical groan.

"He means he can't get rid of me," the Inspector smiled.

"Cheers to that," Hogan said.

They toasted, drank, and sat in silence for a moment. Hobson glanced up at Lewis's face, and, despite the bruises, she could see he was more relaxed than he had been for several months. He caught her appraising look, and smiled as she glanced away, embarrassed to have been caught staring. She stared out across the river instead, listening to the late-evening birds singing in the trees.

"At least it's peaceful again," she sighed, appreciating the tranquillity.

"As peaceful as Oxford gets," Lewis agreed, "it's over. Let's put it behind us. On to the next case, hey?"

"Aye sir," Hathaway raised his glass, as Hogan and Hobson copied the gesture.

"To Marion Brooks," Lewis said, quietly, "may she rest in peace."

"Amen," said Hathaway.

They toasted, and drank, as the sun set slowly over the horizon. It was going to be a beautiful evening.


End file.
